Maybe Or Something
by Aseret Kitsune
Summary: He tells him a story, and thinks about the parallels between the two of them and the motel room they’re in. [Slash]


**A/N:** My first X-Men Evolution fanfic and it is slash. This place needs more Lietro. I got inspired after reading _**Snow, Still Falling **_by D.K. Archer and wrote this. I highly recommend it. And in case it's hard to figure out, the parenthesis are like quotation marks.  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama  
**Pairings: **Lance/Pietro (Lietro)  
**Rating: **R/M  
**Summary: **He tells him a story, and thinks about the parallels between the two of them and the motel room they're in.  
**Warnings: **Slash, sex, cursing, pills, rape, children being hurt.

Maybe or Something

(I…I want to tell you something. Like a story, you know? It's something that happened not that long ago in reality-but it's so surreal that it seems like it happened a forever ago. If at all. But I know it did.)

You're on the edge of the bed in this dirty motel room surrounded by sickly yellow painted walls. You're scowling-but not at me. You're scowling, arms crossed, at the bed sheets that you complained about when we first came here an hour ago. You said they had probably never been cleaned. Well, we're pretty unclean ourselves, huh?

(So, there was this kid in Illinois. He had no real family and he constantly had headaches. His head _really_ started **pounding** whenever there were earthquakes, or just tiny tremors in the ground. They always happened when he was angry-and he was always angry. His headaches would keep him up at night, too, so he didn't sleep a lot which caused him to be angrier. It was a-what the hell're they called?-vicious circle, or something.)

You're looking at me now. You're pretending to be bored, but I know you're really listening to me. I never talk like this-you must be shocked.

_I'_m shocked. That I'm telling you this stupid story at all and that you're not running around the room or something. Maybe though, you're just moving so damn fast that I only think I see you still sitting on that ugly bed in this ugly room with ugly people. Who the hell really knows?

Sometimes, I wonder if even _you_ know how fast you're going, where you're going, or where you're at. Or even where you've been. Who really knows?

(This kid didn't have any friends. None. And all the adults had given up on him or were afraid of him or just didn't even care. It's not surprising he grew bitter. And cynical and aggressive. He wanted attention-and the only way he could get it was violently.

(Everyone ignored him. No one stopped to extend those stupid hands of theirs in friendship. He was called a 'no-good, lying, stealing, cheating freak. A drain on humanity.' That really fucked him up.)

Your hands aren't crossed anymore, but I don't think you realize it. They are playing with your sweater sleeve and your ice-blue eyes are fixed on me with some emotion I can't tell-apprehension? Confusion? Sadness? Empathy? It's odd to think you would show any of those.

But you've felt like that before, plenty of times. You never show it, but I can tell. You run differently when you're lonely or feeling useless, or just so damn pathetic you want to keep on running until your body wears out like burning rubber.

Sometimes, you hate yourself. Sometimes, you just hate everyone/thing else.

Sometimes, I hate myself. Sometimes, I just hate everyone/thing else.

You don't like this room. You hate it. That's kinda easy to tell.

I do, too.

(This kid started stealing because everyone called him a thief. To protect himself he lied. Constantly, maliciously, not caring if anyone got hurt. He gambled with loaded dice after being called a cheat. He counted cards, he sneaked peaks at the other players' hands, he used double-sided coins. People said he didn't do any good and he wasn't any good, so he lived up to those low expectations.)

I wonder how I look to you right now. Deranged? Bitter? Resentful? Fucking psychotic, plain and simple?

…A horrible person?

It's not that far from the truth. But the whole world can fuck off for all I care because they made me this way.

People call you a horrible person, too.

And this is a horrible fucking room with a horrible bed surrounded by horrible pasty-yellow walls and filled with two horrible people.

(One day, this kid-who's only twelve-is walking around by himself-and it's really late at night; so late it's almost early. He's angry, his head is hurting so badly he thinks it might exploded, and he refuses to go back to the orphanage. He's not just walking around, he's running away.

(Suddenly, the kid's pushed up against a wall in a dark alley. There are strange hands holding him in place roughly and it's useless to struggle, but he does anyway.

(He gets hit in the head, hard, for his efforts. The kid glares at this group of four teenagers and pretends he's not frightened. His knees are shaking, though, and he would have fallen to the ground if those hands weren't holding him in place.)

You're silently urging me to continue. The bed creaks ominously as you lean closer to me, as if that will submerge you into the story.

I'm not going fast enough for you, am I? You hate it when things are slow and I know you're impatient to hear what happened to m-_that kid_. You're mind is racing ahead, trying to figure out what happens.

Do you assume he lives or dies?

(The older boys sneer at him and the one who's holding him against the hard bricks tells him that he's gonna pay for screwing them over. The kid doesn't know what they're talking about, but knows he probably did piss them off somehow. Doesn't matter, though, because he doesn't care as long as he finds a way to escape.

(His head still feels ready to explode and the kid wonders if he should use his power or not. It would cause him more pain-and he's pretty sure he can't take anymore. On the other hand, he doesn't know what these guys are gonna do to him and either way he might end up dead. He asks himself which was worse: having some gang beat the living shit out of you until you bled to death or getting killed by your own power? At least the second option took out the other guys as well.

(So, the kid decides, fuck it, and uses his power. His eyesight gets blurry as the ground starts to shake as badly as his knees were. It's not stopping those guys, though. The one teen is still pressing him up against that damn wall and he wonders if maybe he's just making himself shake like that. Maybe, instead of disrupting the ground, his power somehow built up inside of him or something until it was too much for him to handle.

(Then, when he felt like he was really going to lose it and pass out, the kid heard this loud, intimidation voice demand to know what's going on. Everyone turns to look at this newcomer. Before the kid knew it, the guy holding him up had fled along with his buddies. He heard one of them say something about how he was some big shot or something. The kid's eyes start closing and the last thing he sees is a face looming over him.)

At this point, you come over to me in the hard motel armchair and sit half in my lap. Your arm is around my shoulders and you look up at me expectantly.

My eyes close-but not because it's painful or anything; I'm just trying to clearly see everything before I go on with the story.

(When the kid comes to, the first thing he notices is that he's in a strange room he's never seen before-and he can't move. He tilts his head and looks at his hands-they're bound with rope tied to the bed he's laying on. Looking at his feet shows that it's the same scenario there. Only, now that he's looking down over his body, he realizes he's naked.

(Before he can really react to that, he hears the voice from the alley. A man comes into the room and he's holding a glass of water and some type of pills. He tells the kid how glad he is that he's awake as he goes over to him. The kid demands to know just what the _fuck_ the guy thinks he's doing. The guy _laughs_ and tells him, "You."

(The kid tires to break free, but before he can the man is straddling him and forcing his mouth open. He makes the kid swallow the pills. Instantly, the boy stops moving and looks up straight into the man's hazel eyes. He smiles down at the boy and the kid's vision is starting to double. His tongue is heavy and swollen and so he can't scream out as the man takes off his own clothes. His limbs won't move easily and it's as if he's blocked off from his power.

(Then, the guy's inside of him. The kid doesn't want it, but his body's reacting to him. It hurts, but there's some pleasure, but it _hurts_. It's like he's being ripped in two and _his body's enjoying it_. No twelve-year-old should have that inside of them. Or have some guy grab their cock and jack him off as he's pounding into him.

(When both the kid and the man came, he let go of the boy and pulled out of him. The kid could just lay there on the bed, watching as the guy grabbed a towel and started cleaning them both up.

(The kid fell asleep again. This time when he woke up, he was untied and there was a note for him on the bedside table. It told him he could leave whenever he wanted to because his debt for being "saved" was paid-so he got the hell out of there.

(I guess you could say he really _rocked_ that kid's world.)

You don't laugh at my pathetic attempt at a joke. I finally open my eyes and look down at you. I'm surprised you aren't disgusted with m-with that kidYou aren't judging me-_that kid._

(This explains why I'm…awkward with sex.)

That is what made me tell you this story in the first place. You knew something was wrong; I'm a teenaged guy who isn't completely willing to fuck his boyfriend. That's abnormal.

So you wanted to get me away from everyone else and we came to this cheap place because you thought maybe then I'd tell you what was wrong. And now you know.

You don't say anything as you get off of my lap, pulling me up with you. You lead me to the cheap bed and lay down. You pull me on top of you, your eyes telling me that I can do anything that I want to you-for the moment only because you always need to be in charge even if you rarely truly are.

In an instant you take out the lube you brought just in case as I struggle to get our clothes off of us. Then I apply the lube to your pale ass and I get inside of you.

I can tell this is the only thing you know to do. You're not affectionate, which is fine by me. You're not gonna say anything and that's the only time I'll ever tell that kid's story.

You writher in pleasure under me and I can hardly suppress a moan. My body's on top of yours and we're both enjoying it. It doesn't matter that we're doing it on top of a cheap and uncomfortable bed surrounded by cheap and thin yellow walls and there's a cheap guy on top of you, in you, _fucking_ you. All that matters is that it's me and you. Or something.


End file.
